#Goals

It's all well and good to say that I have goals, or #goals, or whatever. The only thing is I can say I have goals all day long until I'm blue in the face because I never, ever ever accomplish them. I don't know why, it's like some faulty wiring thing or something where I just don't give a shit. I know there are people who will lose it if they finish a goal and it didn't go quite as expected, me I'm over here like "oh ya,one time I said I was going to ____________, but then puppies or something came up so I don't care anymore."

Which is more than likely a fucking terrible mindset. So, even if I start small I have to be doing a better job than I have in the past, right?
So little goals, they're the kind that help you get your head straight, I think, again I'm new here. So if I start with little challenges for myself I can work up to bigger and better things.
 First one should obviously be I need to either become a better employee or find another job. Seriously, I'm awful and I get that, but once again, I have no motivation to do anything about it. If I were any other species besides human I would probably be dead by now, from the 'meh'-ness that I run my life with. I would have been eaten, or stranded on an island or nabbed by a hunter (here's hoping I'd be in a rich old mans study. At least that way I could say I ended up with a rich old man.).

Therefore, Attainable Goal #1: I need to get my fucking appearance together. Yes, that is insanely vain, I understand that, however I blame my laziness as well as the current culture. When I'm able to go everywhere in stretchy, soft, athleti-leisure "clothes" that are acceptable everywhere that's all I'm going to put on, and boy do I.

I have the most beautiful winter coat. It's red wool. It's full length. It has a white fox color that nestles in and frames my face and keeps me warm and fabulous. It has black leather gloves that look soft and beautiful with it. It is winter time.

It looks abhorrent with yoga pants. It looks pitiful with knockoff Uggs. As a result of my want to be comfortable my beautiful winter coat has taken a back hook in my closet. Where it sits all by it's lonesome.

It didn't used to. If it was going to work or out for the night it was in great company with dresses that had sequins and wiggle skirts. All of the appropriate underpinnings were in place. After all, tights are terrible, they cut you off at the stomach and dig in and make you look lumpy and strange. They always sag at the crotch or they don't stretch right around your thigh and then you spend all day looking like an idiot that yanks and pulls their midsection up.   A decent garter belt and stockings will stay in place and make everything smooth and unless you get the errant pop of a strap, nothing is going to migrate.

Then you have to finish everything with Proper. Shoes.

Now, of course a six inch heel isn't a proper shoe, but the difference between a beautiful knee high boot and the floppy  brown shearling nightmare is incredible.

At this point though, it isn't even just the shoe. When I'm dressed correctly, everything is better. My posture, my attitude, my humor. It can't all be in my head that even in the darkest, coldest and ickiest of winters I'm ready to go meet a friend, or cook a delicious meal or just go outside of my house.

Instead.
I come home.
take off my awful "real people grown up" uniform.
Put on something else stretchy, stick my hair up and commence sitting in sadness.

So. First goal. Start dressing like a real human. It's going to fucking suck. It takes work, I get that. It's also going to suck because all of this time dressing in forgiving fabrics I'm no longer the same shape, spandex is like a grocery bag, it adjusts to whatever you put in it and you can just keep filling it up. So now I look like a stocking that's filled with mashed potatoes. That stops now.

Until the end of the year, it's real human time. If I can achieve this simple goal of being a person, then I know I can move on to bigger, scarier and more fun goals. Not to mention, why the fuck wouldn't I want to dress like a human? It's more fun, it's more colorful, it feels good to know that I've currated a beautiful wardrobe that's unique to me. Yes it's vain, and I don't give a shit.

My History.

Not where I've come from or things that I've done, no. I mean my Internet History. Which is seriously fucked.

We can start at the beginning which is that my internet history isn't usually something sparkling. Not anything that I would be wildly embarrassed to defend. Sure, there's a lot of creepy stuff:
Podcasts  about potential murderers, weird wikipedia articles , pictures of things  Ed Gein made with skin,  awful taxidermy, incessant watching of the Elisa Lam  elevator video and that post about Disney Prince dicks.

Like I said, weird, yes, but nothing I'm ashamed of or would have to defend. Enter Jerry Springer: The Opera.

Aside from the fact that the music is so hard I wanted to quit on the first day and just do costumes this show is jam packed with all sorts of weirdness. Never have I had to look at a Klan robe with so much scrutiny (and also realize that it's basically an angel costume, so score...sort of?), which have you looked up the Klan recently? They have ridiculous names that sound made up:

• Klabee - treasurers
• Klavern - local organization
• Imperial Kleagle - recruiter
• Klecktoken - initiation fee
• Kligrapp - secretary
• Klonvocation - gathering
• Kloran - ritual book
• Kloreroe - delegate
• Imperial Kludd - chaplain

That's right a KLEAGLE. Kleagle people, like a Klan Beagle or the mispronunciation of your junk muscles. "Hey I read in Kosmo how to improve my Vagina muscles through Kleagles." Gross guys. 

Now lets talk about the outfits because, really, for people that have a problem with tolerance they sure do wear some gay stuff. I don't  mean that in a jr. high boy insult sort of way either I mean look at this: 

That's a whole lot of purple satin for some people who have a problem with color and religious beliefs. Don't even get me started on that green, or is that emerald? Either way, I had no clue that the Klan loved them some lux fabrics. 

Speaking of things that are disturbing and you can't get back: 

What is that you ask? Oh let me tell you please. I'm not here to spoil any ones good time, I'm not. I also am trying my best to not judge something that I don't understand and that happens between consenting adults but those are Frilled PVC Clear Adult Diapers. Why you ask? I don't want the details but you will be able to see all that shit smashed into the wearers butt if that's what you're into. Look. At. Them. 

These are the things currently sitting in my Google history, which yes I can clean, and I can do incognito, but even worse than them sitting in my history is that I now have them sitting in my brain. They don't make brain bleach y'all, there are only so many kitten videos out there for that. 

Now excuse me, I have to go buy adult diapers and make my own rainbow KKK robes in Zak Farmer size. 

I'll just leave this here. 

It's starting with or without me

For about two weeks now I have been kept awake by a persistent nagging. It keeps me from focusing sometimes at work, or when I'm driving. It's even the fist thing in my head when I wake up I hear the chanting...

Jerry...

           Jerry...
                         Jerry!!!!


It's a chorus of rabid rednecks chanting over the sound of my brain flying at 500 miles an hour with thoughts like:


Angels? Angels. I have to figure out what style Angel we're talking here? Like Bible Angel? Victorias Secret Angel? Castiel?

Mary...disco Mary? Right? Mary should be sparkly and pretty.

Heels. Man heels. Loads of Man heels. At least two pairs...

Adult Babies? Wigs? Adam and Eve should be decked in leaves. Stripper gear. I need stripper gear. I need to make sure Steves head is  buffed. Nurses? Are there Nurses? Am I giving it all away?

My trusty sidekick in all of costuming has abandoned me for greener pastures and to pursue amazing opportunities (Get it Girl.) which leaves me to drive myself crazy and put clothes on everyone. We have 14 days until the first rehearsal. Time to get it.

Marcy this one goes out to me and you:

J-E-L-L-Oh Dear God, No!

I'm going to be honest with you: We open in 14 -ish days. When it's typed out like that it seems like "Ya, Sarah, that's like forever chill out". However when I look at it on a calendar it's seems like a non manageable brick of a teeny tiny amount of time left, which leave me like:

I've got the lines coming. I'm close but not as close as I need to be. Almost everyone has clothes we're just missing a few big pieces that I'm sure will get done in the next week or so. However I'm now suffering from mental anguish (dramatic I know).

Not having the script in hand and actually having "real conversations" on stage is incredible. Everyone in this cast is so stupidly fucking talented that I'm sure if we made people sit through a rehearsal they wouldn't think they were getting a bum deal by watching a rehearsal. Seriously, I'm stressing about my lines and then  you have Clyde who has his lines down AND plays the ukulele (spoiler alert!)
We have a freaking show!

While we have a freaking show I keep getting into my head and it's all character related. It's really strange to be playing a person that is real, and not just real, but someone who was still alive during my lifetime (not for long, but you know what I mean). I've played a character before that was based on an actual person, it was a bizarre and incredible experience to know that this womans family would be coming to see me portray their mother and grandmother (this took an even weirder turn when we opened the show and after what seemed like one of the most intense performances I was told that my character had died in real life as we took the stage....I know right.).



So I keep finding that I have like a million different things cropping up in my head:

I read this about Blanche and Buck, The scripts suggests it happened this way, The fuck is Scott telling me to do? My natural instincts are doing god knows what right now.  Oh no, some out of my hands cosmic weirdness just showed up when I opened my mouth. Did I have a stroke? What are my lines, Was that another persons line? Wait shouldn't I be more downstage? Was that my cue? Ooooo,stuff to play with, stuff to try, dowdy recommendation, did I get pants for so and so yet? Dinner. Yes, I should have Dinner. Aw, hell I forgot about this scene. And on and on and on and on so that when I get done with the day my brain is like a giant oozy jell-o mold.

Oh ya. That's a real thing and my stomach lurches every time I look at it's grinning fish face.

I need to breathe. I need to look at my lines. I need to eat dinner. I need to take extra long naps. I can fucking do this.

This post brought to you by the letter 'O'

Words. Words. Words. Words. Naw

This is the part that is my least favorite.

I have to be off book. When you get off book, everything that you've been doing is COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. I know I'm pretty adept at having a script in my hand all sneaky like and tying to do stuff, but it usually comes across as awkward and messy.

And I'm usually no where near as well dressed as this corgi.

I know that the minute that script goes away I can play and play. I'm no longer clutching my safe script in my hand like it's some sort of rainbow, glitter, stuffed manly unicorn named Rex (shout out to Rex, thanks for the snuggles). My brain, has no interest in this, it's just sitting in my skull going "Hey, man you spent waaaaay too long not using me and abusing me so I'm going to be a little slooooooow on the uptake." (incidentally, I think I just realized that the inside of my head sounds like The Dude as a muppet.) and that is not going to work for me, I'm not getting any younger here.

Some of it comes from taking the time to actually sit and work on it. I just have to tell myself that I have to do it, which means when I have a free minute I have to tell my self: "Self, I know you'd rather spend this free minute shotgunning beers while napping and doing crossword puzzles on a pile of kittens, but you need to hop to, get that shit memorized." (It's never actually that fun when I have free time, there is napping and kittens, okay it's a full grown cat but he's really good at naps)

If there are any tips and tricks out there, I would like them please. All of them. Every. Last. Trick. 

Now excuse me while I get back to doing other stuff, like finding time to make a dress. 

Naw, I know what I'm doing, but they have these for EVERYTHING I couldn't pass it up! 

It starts with a Venti....

...iced coffee with an extra shot of espresso and a grande mocha-y, whipped cream-y blended delicious heavenly treat thing around 10:45 AM

Labor day. 

Then Marcy and I hoofed it to the Jo-Ann fabrics and crafts as Labor Day sales are the best at fabric stores. There we encountered a gentleman patiently waiting for his wife, after overhearing what we were working on he showed us a picture of his grand father arresting Machine Gun Kelly in 1933, super cool. Dude emailed it to me. 

Oh hey notice how all of the police officers aren't wearing uniforms...

Then we stood in an extremely long check out line. The only thing that made it longer was a gremlin hell beast that had sobbed the ENTIRE time we were in the store. That fuck topped out at well over a half an hour, which is about 25 minutes longer than it needed to be doing anything.

I will openly admit that I gave that little bitch some side eye the likes of which he couldn't even comprehend, which caused it to hide behind it's awful mother.

Pictured: Actual photo of Shitty Child.

Next we punched it over to SLU where we frolicked in the child free world of costumers on their "day off" (It's funny, because there's no such thing). Pants were found. Suspenders dug through. It was a grand time had by all.

Remember earlier when I said that fabric stores have the best sales on Labor Day? I need to amend that statement to:

 Hancock Fabric jizzes all over Jo-anns face when it comes to sales.

The pattern we already bought? We paid 11 bucks for it. 

At Hancock...1.99. Not to mention 50% off fabric. 

Which is huge.

Why is this huge do you ask?

Oh I don't know...

Maybe because some ass hole decided that Bonnie needs to wear some fancy dress.

I have never in my life bought 20$ a yard fabric...until yesterday. 

After sticker shock and amazing coupons we trucked it over to what will undoubtedly be the next thrift store in the St. Louis area to close: SAVERS! 

For their out of control, one of a kind, you have to slap yourself in the face to believe it could be real, 50% off every damn thing in the store sale. 

Don't forget to bring your walking shoes because you will park half a mile away.

Also, don't forget your mace, bear or otherwise you will have to deal with over zealous old women.

Oh and let's not forget your patience--because yes, you are working, and yes you are measuring mens shirts, and no thank you guy with the eyes that are a little too light and unsettling, neither one of us really wants to be hit on in a thrift store. 

Thanks though (coincidentally that's the second time that's happened at the Savers...something about chicks measuring mens shirts and the smell of lysol I guess.).

Ya, you're cute and all but there's just something not quite right here...are you even old enough to drive?

We had done it. 

We had saved so much money. 

...all for the price of our sanity

and we had never really had that any way, right? 

Leftover pizza. Nap. Repeat. 

Oil Can!

Remember that time that I get to do new and exciting theater? The time that I get to play an amazing part based on an actual woman who was a total badass? And remember that time that I haven’t had to learn new music for anything in over a year….? (Record scratch sound for emphasis please)

But seriously...no idea. 

That’s right. I am out of shape. Woefully out of shape. When your body is out of shape, you can tell. You can feel it, you can see it. It’s wicked obvious.  Like this here, usually that man possess an ass that I want to gently gnaw on, here I want to take his blood pressure because I’m genuinely concerned.

I think there's probs an "I am the Fatman" joke that can be made here, but I don't want to make too much fun of someone who was once arrested for assault...of his own mother.

I’m vocally fat.

I am vocally picked last for dodge ball.

My voice is stained with Cheeto dust and code red mountain dew.

I think sometimes that I have a bizarre form of seasonal affective disorder, I’m fine with the winter, I love winter, scarves are great and I have a fur collection that would make a hairless cat jealous. No, in August I become a hideous zombie that drags its ass around. I don’t know if it’s the weather or that there aren't any holidays in august (except my birthday which is totes a holiday) but my brain just turns off. It’s like in some sort of awful sleep mode. Which means now the time has come for rehearsal and I have to dust off the cobwebs and add some wd-40. I need a training montage for my brain, but you can’t just put it in a grey sweat suit and expect it to box meat in a deep freezer. I have to hop in and stretch and condition or I’m going to get left behind in the dust.

Oh ya, and I have to find clothes for everyone…

Except for Patrick Bateman. He gets no clothes. 

 That’ll help for now I guess….

Ooooo Scary!

It's really sad and awesome how this blogging works out. I start out all amped up about what sort of blog posts I'm going to make, which quickly disintegrates into "blog posts? Pffft, more like time to eat a burrito really fast and nap, posts...(I have never claimed to be articulate)".

I have several ideas for posts that are just churning around my head and when I actually have a moment to make a post I either do the above or freeze up and have nothing to write about. So let's remedy that, and by us I mean me and the stuffed, pink sparkle pony that lives in my office, because I have an adult job dammit.

This week we were treated to an incredible luxury that most actors couldn't even dream of: We were given a set. Not just a "taped out", "Those are steps, you can't just walk through steps, even 1 dimensional steps", but an honest to god set. Not a set that will give us splinters, but a set that is primarily done (with the exception of a floor and aging. AGING. Yes, you read that correctly, they have to come back through and make the set MORE bad ass) it's so done that an audience could have walked in last night and watched the show. Thank Christ they didn't, we looked like a hot mess, but a hot mess in progress.

This is what appeared when I image searched "Hot Mess" it was either this or Mischa Barton looking like Pete Doherty.

I have complete confidence that when we roll around to Monday, we're going to slap this show in the taint. Once we do that, there is no going back either, and for that I'm stoked. I'm so ready to be able to finally get lost in this world, even if it scares the shit out of me, and not have to search for my words or blocking or motivation. 

Not to mention once this week gets rolling, there's no looking back, we're stuck and it's going to be tiring and stressful and awesome and when we get done we may all look like this: 

I never promised that I wouldn't use this photo.

In the Name of all Holy Bejesus!

Okay Okay, I've been slacking with the blogging I get it! I will slack no more and I will get you all together on the same page as me for this Night of the Living Dead drama!

I've now watched NOtLD again as well as several documentaries (recommended by Scott and my cast mates) in order to prepare. The version of NOtLD was some special edition that had some bizarre added filler crap with some leader of Satanist Church, or Goatee Enthusiast Club President, I wasn't really clear on that part. The fact of the matter is whoever decided that those scenes were necessary in their telling or retelling, should be taught the whole "If it ain't broke, don't add weird facial hair to it" mantra (that's totes a mantra, look it up I swear I didn't just make it up right now...).

                            Awwwww ya, there's that sweet sweet goatee...said no one ever. 

Somewhere during my Junior or Senior year of high school one of my good friends and myself decided to go to the Loop (because we're obviously the coolest.) and do cool Loop activities that you do when you're 17. Incidentally, the same activities that now as a 28 year old crotchety woman I find annoying when they're taking place in my neighborhood, which is the Loop (because remember I'm the coolest). We took our selves straight into Vintage Vinyl and we purchased several DVD's (cutting edge for 2002) one of which was NOtLD, after buying bottomless root beer, (and drinking it RESPONSIBLY, the Scientology root beer story is for another day, trust me.) clove cigarettes (rebels!) and god knows what else it was time to head home and review our movie purchases. 

This was a more simple time for myself, I did not watch anything scary, the first two and a half minutes of The Ring scared me so shitless I only watched PBS for a good 3 months 

                                   EHMEHGED!!! I need Reruns of Are You Being Served NOW!!!! 

                                           

                                 Phew. That was a close one. Thanks for saving me Mr. Humphries. 

                     

Wait...where was I going with this...right:

This was the very first movie that I had managed to sit through start to finish that scared the bejeesus out of me. It scared me and began my love of all things zombie. Now I know that in recent years Zombies have gotten extremely sexy and over used but these zombies were the original, they were vacant, slow, eating machines that you had to kill first. Ever since that day I've wanted all things creepy and gross in my life. 

                                                                   Quack the Ripper! 

And he's available on Etsy: http://www.etsy.com/shop/shrunkenheaddotcom?ref=l2-shopheader-name Just remember that if for some reason you missed my birthday...ahem. 

Seriously.

Remember that time that I had a career of blogdom in my future ? Me neither, I made up that first part I really don't have a future in it but it sure is fun.

So here we are more than a year later reattempting a blog that has been long since forgotten. If I was someone who used my head more I would have blogged for every show I've ever done and even when I'm not in a show (what, what WHAAAAAT?!).

That being said the remount of Stupefy! goes up at the end of the week this time it's a little different, a little less dirty and just as goofy as it should be. I'm not too worried about how it's going to go, after all currently there's more than one sold out performance. What I'm wicked concerned about is what the fuck I'm going to do when the show wraps up. For real, this is going to be the longest that I've gone in a while without a project in the works. What. The. Fuck.

Excuse me now while I attempt to get my life (waaaaaaay easier said than done that's for sure)

Neglecting my blog like a drapes parents neglect they kids.

The past ten days have been bitchin'. We've gotten our sets and our costumes and everything we need to get a show happening. Our band is the shit. A few times Scotts been like "hey we have a sub _____" if he didn't say anything I wouldn't know because these musicians are ass kickers!
Tonight we get the most important part of any show. Not the lights, or sound, or baller music, tonight we get a real audience. Real people who have given their time and money in exchange for the hope that we can entertain them for a few hours. People who don't have to come and see anything, they could sit at home and clean out their DVR's instead they have decided to let us strut our stuff just for them. Without an audience we would all be standing around jacking each other off in the dark (well, eww, sorry.) (it would be dark though cause lighting guys have better things to do then hang out with a bunch of actors who aren't working toward a main goal). Tonight we get to strut our wild stuff because if we didn't have an outlet for strutting that stuff we'd all probably be strippers or criminals, anything for the attention.

I'm going to take this moment to thank every audience I have ever had, without you guys my life wouldn't exist, thank you!

The devil in Elvis

This morning I read the Rookie article with John Waters, he talks about how Elvis was terrifying. Scott keeps pushing this point home and I have been trying hard to get it.  Elvis scared the shit out of people, he made weird noises and wiggled and just looked scary in a time where people moved politely and deliberately.
Then I started thinking of what I have to compare that to, I'll tell you what, it isn't a whole hell of a lot.
Sure, last weekend Nicki Minaj pissed off a slew of people by having he "pope" accompany her to the Grammys. Truth be told, every other minute catholics are lambasting one person or another for acting inapro, whether it was The Gahg eating a rosary, Sinead O'Conner ripping up the pope or whatever else Madonna has ever done. By the time Nicki had been exorcised wasn't most of the world over it?
In order to do something controversial in music these days you would only have to...wait there really isn't anything left now is there.
The fact is Elvis freaked the worlds freak by doing nothing too crazy, in all fairness if you watch some of his videos it is slightly bizarre, he was super twitchy and wiggly and I can sort of see what it was that made everyone scared. He wasn't coated in blood, meat or stuffed animals, he wasn't triple kissing with a celeb old enough to be his mom, and he never once had to be suspended above a crowd with flames and indoor fireworks.
Elvis paved the way for the shock. Did he have any idea that the shock he would provide would just give us tired old antics of trying to piss off the right group of people?
Every time I open my gossip websites and see: "Nicki Minaj pissed off an old dude", " Lady Gaga is carrying around a mutilated crocodile", "Madonna is still doing shit even though she looks like the crypt keeper" or "Beyonces baby was awarded to her from the devil in a super secret Illuminati pact that will cause the end of the world" all I can do is give it a good jack off hand with an extra noisy "sploot" at the end.
I need to get into the mentality of "Elvis is evil because he is aware of his hips, I want to be aware of my hips therefore I must be evil."

Pictured: Someone in need of a squeegee and nap:

 Pictured: Hide your families because your eyes will be seared from their very sockets, behold the evil filth of the hip swivel!

Seriously, how do his legs do that?

I have been duped and neutered

I am livid, for reals livid.
I recently bought "A Dirty Shame" and did you know that the MPAA has raped this film?! I'm sorry, has coerced the film to have relations that it did not ask for.
No joke, like didn't say balls, and has cut out minuscule frames, it makes no difference if it's in there.
If you were going to watch this movie you know what you're in for, for fuck's sake didn't I just blog about how I watched a chicken get smushed by humans while boning, and now I'm watching something that won't let people say the word boner?! I watched Mink Stole, naked, with a dyed electric red snatch suck a guys big toe, and now I watched her with redubbing of the word boner.

I'm pissed, for real.
Now pardon me for a moment while I post something obscene:

Not obscene enough.

Now pardon me while I take my top off and run around for a bit.

Throw in a chicken for good measure

This afternoon I did it. I sat down and watched Pink Flamingos, the smuttiest of smut, the filth of all things filthy, the holy grail of nast. It lived up to its name. Maybe I'm not easily bothered by things because all I know is there wasn't one scabby pein to be seen, and that makes my day.

Few things about the movie: 

Edie is terrifying, she freaks my freak and I can't help it. Until the bonus footage where there's a scene of her playing with hard boiled eggs and it's probably the cutest thing ever. Also, it is coincidental that she is vaguely reminiscent of Big Edie Beale, right?

Mary Vivian Pierce is gorgeous, she's nasty and hot all at the same time and I have a friend who looks far too much like her. 

Divine did it, she is the most vile thing ever and I love every second of it. From the receding hairline to the meat shoved between her thighs, I worship the fame hunger that is Divine. 

Dog shit. Yea, it happened, but I'm glad to know that it looks like a good chunk of it was spit right back out, and that it didn't happen like I had pictured it either, thank god ( or thank Divine I suppose because she does proclaim herself god there at the end). Topping it off, that was one of the cutest dogs ever, so at least there's that. 

I must have been ruined by the internet or my imagination or something because on a whole there wasn't a  lot that made me gag, once that asshole got a little runny I did avert my glance. For the most part that "shock" did what it was intended to do, caused laughter. I love Raymond Marbles (David Lochary) and his ridiculous attempts to be a perv as well as his over the top ridiculous mustache (and all of the great wig work, that man was a god with a rat tailed comb)

Now onto my new personal lord and savior: Mink Stole. 

She is who I want to be when I grow up damn it, from her tiny little tits to her fur coats, I want it all. 

                           currently I'm attempting that hairstyle and typing at the same time...

Any one who utters the phrase : "I love you more than anything in this whole world! I love you even more than my own filthiness! More than my hair color! " is a winner in my book, and must be in love.

There are two major lessons that this movie has given me to apply to Crybaby:

1.) Babs, Connie and Raymond act out their filth but do it in the biggest most declarative way possible. It isn't enough for Connie and Raymond to have girls chained up in their basement so they can sell black market babies, oh no. They have to sell those babies to lesbians AND use the money to sell heroin...in elementary schools. 

It's the mentality of " Hey, everybody look over here, I'm about to do something depraved...are you watching? You had better get your cameras because it's going to be one hell of a doozy of a nasty thing I'm gonna do". That's what the drapes do. They aren't perpetually doing terrible acts of no-good-ed-ness, they're playing music, hanging out with their friends until someone comes along who they have to prove themselves to. they have to make a big deal in a public place so everyone knows that they're the baddest kids around. 

2.) I'm also reading Role Models by Mr. Waters and it has one of the most pertinent quotes, in regards to his movies and this show.

"...and I knew that not only did I want to be a teenager-I wanted to be an exaggeration of a teenager." 

Whether it's being a teenager necking (facing?), the eyebrows drawn onto the side of Divines head, or the killer acting I have to keep thinking: Exaggerate That Shit. There is soooooooo much bigger than what I've got going on, I have only hit the level of actor whose gotten comfortable and is ready to play a little. I have to be, "Holy moses what drugs did that girl take before she walked out here." 

Last thing I swear! 

One of my favorite Online Magazines Rookie Magazine (Tavi Gevinson one of my all time girl crushes heads it), just had a post  about John Waters, I lost my shit when I signed in and their photographer had her collection of photos with an interview on it's way. Seriously, it is not to be missed: 

Please lets all thank Hazel from Rookie

Check out the rest, you know you wanna

This is not a pretty picture...

...It could not be pretty and still be true. What happens to the girl is unimportant... What happens to the others is more than important; it is the most vital issue of our time. This story is about a sickness, a spreading epidemic that threatens to destroy our very way of life. We are not doctors... We can offer no cure... But we know that a cure must be found...

Cue the Musical sting.........!


Tonight I watched Teenage Doll, and it was insightful and at the same time ridiculous! 


Lets start with the most important thing out there right now: Boys when all else fails, just have the greaser look, please, for my sake. 


Probably to coolest thing about this movie is it starts with you under the impression that the "bad girls" are just out to be bad. Then slowly they take you through each ones home life where they don't have a chance to be anything but bad. You have the dunk families, you have the non existent families, and even families that aren't so bad they just need to have a closer eye on their daughter. 


We also need to take a moment to address the cover: 

Do you want to know a secret about this cover? Almost none of the people pictured are in the movie, in fact the lead actress (the giant picture) is about 15 years older in this picture than how she appears in the film: 

...and those other chicks didn't ever show, not once. 

Today was  blockeriffic, tomorrow I got nothing so it looks like some memorization with a side of gnarly faces 101.

I took the night off

Tonight I watched the most racist movie I have ever witnessed.
That's right, for the first time in my life I watched Breakfast at Tiffanys, and I know deep within my soul that 87% of girls who dress as Holly Golightly and/or own the movie poster and/or who "loooooooove Audrey Hepburn, like she's totes my fave" have never once sat down and watched any of her movies.
I've read the book, it's pretty damn good, I can't envision anything  but Truman Capote as the writer who is enamored with Holly. Never in my wildest dreams would I have picked Mickey Rooney to play an elderly Japanese man (RACISM), and most assuredly I would have picked fewer places to play "Moon River".

I will ask however that you wrap me in the entire wardrobe and bury me please, especially the strippers dress.

Also please everyone, stop being wrapped in everything  Zooey Deschanel does, there will always be a crazy wide eyed girl to do movies. Always.
Thank you, and remember that tonights blog was brought to you by Male Gigolos:


Male gigolos for when having a gay lead male just won't cut it!

Last night I was crushing super hard on John Waters, today I'm falling for Wanda Jackson. She released this in '54 and it made it to number 8 on the country charts and she was only sixteen.

I've got a forty dollar a day liquid eyeliner habit

Most of my life I have always wanted to do my own thing. When I was really young my mom made all of my clothes because the ones in the store were terrible. It was a fantastically early nineties mother daughter collaboration collection, which means there was an over sized bow and scrunchie that coordinated with everything.
The older I got the more I simply found things and put them on. Once there was an early teen pure hatred fueled argument between my mother and myself because she refused to let me go somewhere in a vintage schoolgirl plaid skirt and cub scout shirt. (All of that got resolved when she simply became thankful I wasn't dressing like a slut.)
To this day I do what I want, and today is when it all made sense.
Up until this point the only John Waters experience I really had was some of Pecker and A Dirty Shame (which consequently almost caused me to rape the boy I had a crush on at the time, wrong movie to sit on my bed together and watch at nineteen. Especially since it was the day before leaving to teach at an all girls camp for two months, rape would not be an exaggeration.)
Female Trouble.
Holy fuck, I finally get whats been wrong with me my whole life.
Sometimes I joke that I was born a drag queen and I'm pretty sure this movie confirmed it, I NEED to shave the sides of my head to give my eyebrows a place to call home. I NEED to own sequined pants with pinfeathers from the knee down and I NEED to get my hair that big.
The alternate universe that all of these films takes place in has always been the alternate universe going on for me, somehow I've made to Oz made it where I need to be.

The trio of Dawn, Concetta and Chicklette is killer, they are total badasses and make it super cool, in fact stupidly cool. Taffy Davenport ended up being the one that helped me the most though. She is a child that has only been spit on, ever, lets be real her mom tells her ever day that she should have been aborted because she's mentally retarded, not to mention her step dad is constantly offering to have her suck his dick. Her being played by a grown person makes the difference that I think Scotts going for: Be natural to react because it's easier to lash out then to actually take the time, time can equal hurt.

Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to see how high I can get my hair, sew some giant ruffles onto some coats and try to figure out just how I can mainline some eyeliner, I hear it's a hell of a drug.

Wanda Jackson! Yes Ma'am!
Right now I'm at work which means there is no better time than now for working on the show, right? That being said I got a bit out of the mindset for rehearsal (too much of that Zep-Head BF this weekend, but I did put some serious character study into tongue kissing (much to his dismay I also practiced singing and tonguing)) and in order to get back I've been rocking out to some killer chtunes this morning.
Of course there's Buddy Holly and Elvis, complimented by Janis Martin (billed as The Female Elvis), Wanda Jackson and a few new ones that may cause obsessions Bill Riley and His Little Green Men, or The Collins Kids for instance.
When I was in Jr. high and high school (alright and admittedly now) I wanted nothing more than to be in a Ska band and as I got older I wanted to be in a Rockabilly band. Unfortunately spending time and money to sound like Julie Andrews wasn't going to get me closer to that dream, and it felt like the more training I had the further away I got from the sound I wanted.
Part of this process is going to be able to find a way to make my character rip as I had talked about before, but more importantly I want to be able to let go of the musical-y side of me and let my voice rip. I need to be able to growl out a line like Kim Lenz , and I know somewhere in me I can do that. It's going to take banishing  judgmental  Sarah:

God She is such a bitch, not to mention Ye who judges should probs not sip on Ol'Fashion Bud.

And allowing the " I don't give a fuck!" Porter in:

Not a single fuck was given by that pig. Ever.

It's there and I know it. I plan to coax it out slowly, like it's a feral kitty hiding under the bed.

On a total sidebar:
I had the revelation today that the Biebs had yoinked Run Around Sue. I know that I should be sad, but at the same time he has earned millions for his ability to follow the earliest form of musical marketing and lack his lack of chest hair. I suppose he gets a tip of the hat from myself. (Apologies for being wicked late on this revelation too)

I've also recently discovered my exciting new laptop with its camera and editing software. Meaning: Prepare ye the way of Vlog!

...But her Face can really kill ya

Tonight was the first time I had a real "oh, hell" moment. It's completely silly, but I figured it was bound to happen. I spent my night in and kicked everyone else out and then took to some of my favorite girl things. Bleaching my hair, plucking my eyebrows, painting my toenails, eating mac and cheese (a VERY important step) all that mysterious girl stuff that makes us, well girls, or Bowie I suppose. It was at the step where I was working conditioner through my poor, crunchy, processed tresses that it dawned on me: I'm going to get to be hideous.
Not "oh she's got a great personality" or "Oh, looks aren't that important." but "Holy shit don't move because I think it senses movement and fear." and "Sweet God in Heaven, I'm sorry for everything I've ever done. Please make it go away!" ugly
Don't get me wrong, I own a ton of flannel, think chinstrap-trapper fur hats are hilarious AND fashionable and have spent many an hour making awful faces in public and private. I've played old, I've worn just bathing suits, I've played evil, and slutty but never have I been blatantly disgusting. I know it's something in my realm of possibility, shit it's going to be fun.
However, in order for it to be fun I have to be able to put my vanity on the side and try to find a balance of taking the material seriously and not taking my ownself too seriously. Which is making sense in my head and I hope I haven't lost anyone...
The material needs honesty and I need to be able to see the show through to the end without being "not enough" or "not too much". Of course as it goes for being an actor there is always more. I'm going to need to find a way to tap into my normal everyday "I don't give a fuck" mentality and try to knock out the "holy shit I'm a nervous actor...meh...people are watching me." lame inside self who takes over sometimes. That guy is such a douche.
Let's fucking do it.